


sweeter all the time

by kitouma



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, implied atsukita, spoilers for timeskip, they're happy and they're shopping that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24490924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitouma/pseuds/kitouma
Summary: He knows volleyball like he knows his own hands, like he knows Atsumu’s hands - but cooking, he knows it like he knows Suna’s.Osamu and Suna talk about toothbrushes, the future, and everything in between.(OsaSuna Week 2020, tier 1: past/future)
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 9
Kudos: 207
Collections: OsaSuna Week 2020, SunaOsa





	sweeter all the time

**Author's Note:**

> inspiration also taken from Rilke's 'I Am Much Too Alone in This World, Yet Not Alone' (it's a great poem, check it out)
> 
> edit: made some minor revisions

Osamu’s phone rings while they’re in the linens aisle. He holds up a hand towel with one hand - white with seashell patterning, it’s nice but he’d prefer blue - and answers his phone with the other.  
  
“What do you want,” Osamu says, sandwiching the phone between his head and his shoulder while he folds the hand towel back up.  
  
“I’m bored,” is Atsumu’s equally snippy reply. Osamu contemplates hanging up on him right then and there, but it’s been a little while since he’s heard Atsumu’s actual voice so he decides to be merciful.  
  
Osamu surveys the shelves of blue towels, all stacked neatly and labelled with terms he doesn’t understand. “If you’re gonna be a nuisance, at least be a useful one. Look up what’s better for towels, combed or ring spun cotton.”  
  
“Fuckin’ dictator,” Atsumu grumbles but Osamu can hear him rustling about. “Combed is more durable, but ring spun is softer. Why the hell are you buying towels anyway?”  
  
“Because I’m not a slob,” Osamu says, sweeping a set of striped blue towels into his cart and walking into the next aisle. “And I’m helping Rin shop for his move to Tokyo.”  
  
“Apartment shopping, huh? Very domestic of you,” Atsumu says faux-casually, and he’s definitely wiggling his eyebrows in that smug way Osamu hates because he can’t do it himself. It’s a scam, really; he hasn’t been dealing with his clown of a twin for twenty-two years just for their shared DNA to betray him like this.  
  
Suna looks up from the toothbrush holders, gestures to the phone and mouthes _Atsumu?_ When Osamu nods, he leans over the phone and says, “Tell him I’m gonna beat his ass in the first game we play.”  
  
“Just for that, I’m gonna do a dump shot right in front of ya,” Atsumu shoots back, his attempt at intimidation thwarted by the tinny phone speaker.  
  
“You two are the most embarrassing people in the world,” Osamu interjects, turning away from the other shoppers in the aisle who are peering at them curiously. He rifles through the toothbrushes; there’s a three-for-one deal going, so it’d be a good time to stash a few spares away for guests. He picks some nice blue ones and drops them in the cart.  
  
Suna plucks the phone from his hand, grinning toothily as Osamu continues to examine the toothbrushes. “Your brother is so mean, Atsumu. He thinks I embarrass him. Maybe I should date you instead, I mean you’re basically the same person.”  
  
“Please, have ya seen Tsumu?” Osamu says without looking up from the shelves. “No one would date a face like that.”  
  
The phone isn’t close enough for him to hear what Atsumu says next, but Suna laughs, “He said he didn’t hear you but fuck you, just in case.”  
  
“Pretty bold of him to insult the person choosing his guest toothbrush,” Osamu says, taking back the phone. He spots a neon-yellow _Anpanman_ toothbrush for kids and swipes it into the cart immediately. Suna rolls his eyes at that, but he sidles up beside Osamu anyway and bumps their shoulders together.  
  
Atsumu snorts, perhaps having caught the tail end of Osamu’s statement. “It’s not even your apartment.”  
  
“It might as well be,” Suna says, and his words feel warm in Osamu’s chest. Then he drops a tube of glittery fairy toothpaste next to Atsumu’s neon toothbrush, grin just this side of devious, and Osamu loves him all the more.  
  
He’d been nervous at what this move might mean for them, and sometimes he still is, but it’s days like these that help him believe it will all work out. As long as he keeps calling out, as long as Suna keeps reaching back. The game won’t end as long as they’re both still willing to play.  
  
“Ugh, I can sense you two being gross and sappy from here,” Atsumu complains, “Don’t call me if you’re just gonna make me third wheel. I’m hanging up.”  
  
“You called _me_ , dipshit, and who was the one that spent years mooning on and on about Kita-“  
  
“Good- _bye._ ”  
  
The line clicks. Osamu pockets his phone, shaking his head as he starts pushing the cart along again. With Atsumu’s new training schedule for the Black Jackals, most of their recent conversations have taken place via text. It isn’t a bad arrangement by any means - it’s freeing, in fact, there’s only so much of his brother he can put up with before someone gets punched - but he does miss him sometimes. He’s still getting a handle on his relationships now that the people he loves aren’t the people he sees every single day.  
  
“You’ve got that look again,” Suna says. He’s got one hand on the side of the shopping cart, steering it this way and that through the aisles. “Worried about the future?”  
  
They’ve talked about it a lot. They’ll probably still be talking about it for a while to come.  
  
Osamu gives a small shrug. “A bit.”  
  
From the way Suna just nods, he must understand. Tokyo is a long way from Hyogo.   
  
They head into the kitchen section, filled with shelf after shelf of pots and pans and what looks like eighty varieties of spoon. There’s a shelf filled with cooking and variety magazines, and boxes of equipment under every counter. Osamu feels his fingers twitch in anticipation.  
  
“At least it’ll be harder for the press to find out about us,” Suna says, picking up a particularly heavy-looking pot and weighing it up and down. “Remember when they found out Atsumu wasn’t single? I almost felt sorry for him.”  
  
Osamu does remember, mainly because he’d gotten a million phone calls from news outlets and vague acquaintances asking about it, and then Atsumu himself had shown up that evening and holed himself up in his apartment. It had been a nightmare for all parties involved and hadn’t ended until Kita himself came to drag Atsumu home.  
  
“It’s different with them though,” he says. “They didn’t know who Kita was. But they’d recognise me if they saw us together.”  
  
Suna puts the pan down and reaches out to grab Osamu’s hand. “Well, they can’t know everything.”  
  
He squeezes it gently and then goes back to messing with the pans, feeling the grip and comparative weight. Osamu’s hand feels cold in his absence, but the warmth still burns in his chest.  
  
There are some things the press will never know but he wonders what they can tell, whether they can look at Suna and see him as a man in love. He wonders whether they’d be able to see it in himself.  
  
He knows how to be a mirror, he’s been doing it for twenty-two years. He feels Atsumu’s trace in his humour, the way he insults people - his laughter too, his smile right down to the dimple, like imprinted love.  
  
Osamu isn’t Atsumu, but they are still the same in all the ways that matter.  
  
And it’ll take time - all good things do - but it’ll be worth it, he thinks, for these days where Suna looks at him and he’s brave enough to keep looking back. The days Osamu can reflect him; true, undistorted, real.  
  
It’s a dream in reach. He can see himself reflected in Suna’s eyes even when Suna is looking away.

* * *

  
  
_One moment the press doesn’t know about.  
  
“If you guys ever got married,” Gin had joked after practice one day, “would ya change your surname? Or are ya both gonna be Miyas forever?”  
  
“No one’s gonna marry Tsumu, so there’s no issue there,” Osamu had said, neatly dodging the swipe Atsumu aimed at him. “I think I’d wanna keep my name though.”  
  
Suna had looked at them, contemplating. Osamu remembers taking particular notice of the way Suna pursed his lips, for reasons he hadn’t understood back then. “It’s a nice name, I suppose. If I married you, I’d take it.”  
  
“Ew,” Atsumu had said. No one had acknowledged him.  
  
“Miya Rintarou?” Suna had tested out. “Sounds fine to me.”  
  
Osamu had nodded along sagely, but Atsumu’s face had resembled wrinkled seaweed. “Nope. No way. I refuse to be associated with you on terms any friendlier than mutual tolerance.”  
  
Suna had said, “Don’t flatter yourself, I don’t even respect you,” at the same time that Aran said, “God knows we don’t need more Miyas running around,” and then Osamu had murmured something about Kita’s surname which made Atsumu jump him. Aran was yelling and Akagi was laughing and Suna had whipped out his phone to capture the whole circus while he could. Osamu knows he still has it backed up to a hard drive for safekeeping.  
_

* * *

  
  
“Stop daydreaming and help me choose a pan,” Suna interrupts, jabbing him in the side with a silicon spatula. “You’re just as useless as your brother.”  
  
Osamu spites him by pointedly turning away to the magazine counter and flicking through the tabloids. Most of the trashy magazines at the counter are foreign to him, but there’s one that catches his eye.  
  
“That’s the one that interviewed ya,” he says, grabbing it and flipping through the pages until he finds it. “Ah, here we go.”  
  
Magazine-Suna isn’t looking at him, instead staring off into the sky as he jumps up for a spike. The glossy spread takes up two full pages, the headline ‘ _EJP’s newest star! Suna Rintarou blazes onto the court’_ blown up in blinding white lettering underneath.  
  
“Let me see,” Suna says, hooking an arm over Osamu’s shoulder. “Oh, I thought they’d use the other photo, the one shot from the back.”  
  
“You do have a very nice back,” Osamu agrees, raising his eyebrows suggestively, and Suna laughs.  
  
“To show off my name,” Suna corrects, jostling against him playfully. “You know? On the back of my jersey?”  
  
Osamu doesn’t want to admit that the name isn’t what he’s looking at when Suna has his back to him, so he just hums in agreement and keeps reading.

* * *

_  
  
One moment the world doesn’t know about.  
  
Warm hands, shuddering breaths, a forehead pressed flush against his.  
  
“I’m with you, Osamu,” Suna had said. “I’m not going anywhere.”  
  
Osamu knows Suna to be a lot of things but he’s not a liar, not when it counts.  
_

* * *

  
  
Osamu slides a finger over the last few lines of the article.  
  
 _...will be moving back to his hometown, Tokyo, to attend training. Best of luck, Suna!_  
  
“That’s enough of that,” Suna says, folding the magazine up and putting it back on the shelf. “I don’t want to look at myself anymore.”  
  
“Killjoy,” Osamu replies, but he doesn’t push it further. With the trajectory Suna’s career is taking, there’ll be magazine features aplenty in the future.  
  
 _I’m on my way there too_ , he thinks. Their paths aren’t quite the same but they’re still running in the same direction.  
  
“They’ll be doing spreads on you soon,” Suna says, as if reading Osamu’s mind. “We’ll see how you like it then.”  
  
He says it teasingly, but that casual confidence in Osamu, in his dream, is uniquely comforting. He had trusted Suna with this dream a long time ago and there’s never been a day he’s regretted it.  
  
Osamu knows volleyball like he knows his own hands, like he knows Atsumu’s hands - pride and exhaustive effort, every set, every spike imprinted like phantom memory. It’s been a long time since then, but the shape of Atsumu’s hand against his as they take back a hard-won set is written into his skin.  
  
(“Hard work won’t ever betray you,” Kita had said to him, once upon a time. Kita is always right.)  
  
He knows volleyball like he knows his own hands, like he knows Atsumu’s hands - but cooking, he knows it like he knows Suna’s.  
  
Volleyball is theirs but this is his.  
  
Osamu closes his eyes, traces the Onigiri Miya logo in his head. _My dream. Mine._ He opens them and sees Suna smiling back fondly. _Mine, yes, mine._  
  


* * *

  
  
_One thing Miya Osamu doesn’t know about._   
  
_Suna Rintarou looks at him and sees the world._

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! 
> 
> on twitter @ miphaas


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